


A Storm for Late Blooming

by zemph147



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29664102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zemph147/pseuds/zemph147
Summary: After many years of living together, John and Sherlock get snowed in and finally deal with the fact that they really want to fuck each other. Pornographic loving fluff.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 158





	A Storm for Late Blooming

**Author's Note:**

> HI ARE YOU ALSO SUFFERING FROM TERRIBLE PANDEMIC DEPRESSION? DO YOU WANT SOME SEXUAL AND EMOTIONAL PORNOGRAPHY TO SOOTHE YOUR SOUL???
> 
> This is scraped from the bottom of my brain in an attempt to juice some good vibes from my forever OTP. Set some years after the events of the show. I never saw S4, and continue to pretend there is no baby. The plot points are not designed to make sense. Why is there no fireplace guard? Are John's burns and burn care realistic? What is the snow removal infrastructure in London? How are they hungover but have no real hangover symptoms? Have I completely forgotten how to edit out Americanisms? Do not concern yourself with these details, dear reader, because I certainly did not. This is a low effort, high fluff affair. 
> 
> John's burned hands are a homage to Curious Case by Cleo2010, one of the fandom greats even after all these years.

They’ve been together enough years now that John can’t remember exactly how many without stopping to do the arithmetic between whatever year it is now and whatever year it was then. Enough years for John to learn Sherlock’s patterns, his rhythms and cycles, observe how they’ve shifted and changed with age. It’s hardly analytical, not like Sherlock’s compulsion for categorizing, marks on bones or mold spores near gravestones, more something John senses, like a coming change in the weather, experienced enough times to declare there are regular seasons.

There are the accelerations: cases, fixations, punctuated by euphoria, followed by a delayed crash, days and weeks and sometimes months of sulking melancholia. When they first lived together, when they were both much younger than they realized, Sherlock could be quite abrasive in these bouts, with deliberately cruel lashings and snide pickings, like a wounded child trying to spread around the pain. Somewhere along the way, in all the death, rebirth, and death again, this cruelty died as well. In its place is a hollowness. At least cruelty has spirit, flares alive and takes up energy and space. Now, John can feel the empty pit open within Sherlock during his melancholies, just by being in proximity to his slumped form, witnessing the flattened, defeated gaze as he stares into nothingness.

It is winter, both in London and in Sherlock’s soul. John doesn’t know how many days it’s been since Sherlock left the house, how long since he’s seen Sherlock anywhere besides flung on the sofa like a collapsed rag doll or curled away in the nest of blankets on his bed which he refuses to have washed--but it’s enough days to be approaching a month. John feeds him, or tries to, and that is the extent of their interactions beyond the gentle, unassuming coexistence they’ve cultivated together. It’s admittedly terrifying the way Sherlock sinks inside himself, vanishes into a shell, but John knows he’ll come out of it eventually. He always has.

News of the coming storm reaches John near the end of his shift at the hospital, a flurry of rumor and small talk to match the first drifting flakes of snow outside. Storm of a century, oh, don’t we have so many of those around the world these days. Expectation of power outages, lighthearted jokes about the apocalypse. John is glad to finish his day. He stops by the store on the way home for candles and batteries—Mrs. Hudson is always well-stocked on firewood. He also picks up a more than a couple bottles of wine, and ingredients for a few of Sherlock’s favorite dishes. John doesn’t think much about how his diet has shifted to whatever is most likely to get Sherlock to eat. Just a soft nagging he mostly ignores, about how his life isn’t his anymore, it’s theirs. 

John enters 221B, arms laden with shopping, stomping the already accumulating snow from his boots. The fire is going, Mrs. Hudson’s doing no doubt, and the room is overly warm, especially against John’s wind-sliced skin. Sherlock is splayed on the sofa in his pajamas, soft threadbare cotton hanging off and puddling around his whipcord frame and the discombobulated gangle of his limbs. He does not interrupt his staring contest with the ceiling when John comes in. John goes about the business of arriving home, discarding his winter wear and unpackaging items, glancing at Sherlock to ensure he’s still breathing. The stillness of him, the emptiness, remains unsettling.

John finally goes to crouch at Sherlock’s side. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the kind of casually caring touch that’s become ordinary between them. Sherlock doesn’t turn his head, but his eyes shift slowly to peer at John from the corner of his gaze.

“Going to make some pasta with capers and olives,” John says. “If you want to eat.”

Sherlock looks back at the ceiling and emits a brief, rumbling grunt.

“Storm’s coming,” John says. “They say it’s going to be a bad one. Power might go out.”

A deep, long sigh inflates and collapses Sherlock’s chest.

“Nowhere to go anyway,” Sherlock mutters.

“Thought I might entice you to watch a movie with me tonight?” John says, squeezing where the cusp of Sherlock’s shoulder bone fits into the cradle of John’s palm.

Sherlock glances back at John, still not moving his head, though there is the barest flicker of a smile, a tiny tick of the corner of his mouth that John only catches because he’s looking for it.

“Ambitious,” Sherlock says. He goes back to staring at the ceiling, and John knows that’s the end of the conversation. He sighs, a shorter version of Sherlock’s mournful one, and stands to go prepare dinner. At the kitchen entryway, he pauses, turns to add,

“I bought quite a bit of wine. For being snowed in.”

“Enticing,” Sherlock says without conviction.

Night settles in. It’s one of those snowy winter nights that comes with a blanket of silence, the hush of a hibernating city, sound itself hiding away from the cold. John manages to get Sherlock sitting up, and while he mostly pushes his food around his plate like a child, John catches him sneaking bites, chewing and swallowing like he’s pondering a nuanced concept. He even drinks a few sips of wine after John puts the television on and they are side by side in its pale glow. John drinks two, then three glasses, until he feels no concern at how they slump together, how Sherlock rests his head on John’s shoulder and John absently twirls his fingers the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck. There is a Sherlock-shaped sinkhole in this couch, and they are pulled in together, by John’s wine-heavy limbs, by Sherlock’s depression-laden body, by gravity. Instead of a fourth glass, John reaches for the rest of the bottle. Credits roll on the screen. Sherlock nuzzles into John’s neck, half-asleep.

John puts an arm around him and holds him. For a long, hazy moment, John thinks he could stay just like this forever. Suspended in time on a snowy night in London with Sherlock, even at his worst.

The moment is shattered by a rapid series of events that is alarming to live through but probably plays out a bit like slapstick to watch. The log John added to the fire about an hour ago reaches some kind of chemical breaking point and POP! Not quite like a gunshot, but loud enough that they both jump, jolted out of their comfortable stupor. The log splits and the fire spits, smoldering coals leaping past the guard and onto the carpet. Visions of 221 Baker Street burning to the ground flash into John’s mind. He’s up like a shot, though standing is wobbling, and logic most certainly fled the building some hours ago, because instead of stomping at where the carpet threatens to catch fire, he scoops up several large glowing embers with his hands, tossing bits of flaming wood and ash back into the hearth. The pain doesn’t register until the adrenaline subsides slightly, as he realizes the situation is easily contained and they are not about to be engulfed in flames. A bolt of searing pain rockets up his arms as he stands before the fire, breathing heavily, staring down at his sooty, already-beginning-to-blister palms.

His attention shifts, because Sherlock is laughing. It’s such an unexpected delight to see him laughing that John immediately doesn’t care about anything else. He laughs too, which makes Sherlock laugh harder, wiping tears away from his eyes. It’s his giggle, pitchy and ridiculous, one of Sherlock’s laughs John is fairly certain no one else gets to see. Not the pain, not the wine, and not John’s obvious moment of pure stupidity can take away from John’s relief at that laugh. Sometimes he worries one of these days Sherlock might actually die inside, but that day is not today.

“Idiot,” Sherlock says, but he’s up, coming across the room to stamp out the last of the smoking carpet, and then take John’s hands in his own. He cradles them, holding them up to examine the damage done. “You are aware we keep a collection of instruments specifically for that task,” he says, nodding his head at the fireplace tools neatly tucked in their stand beside the hearth.

John tries to come up with something clever to say, but instead just sighs as says,

“Yes, I suppose so,” which sends them both into another fit of giggles.

John’s hands ache, but he doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind much of anything, because the moment is so lovely, just the two of them standing close in shared amusement. John leans forward and rests his forehead on Sherlock’s chest, still vibrating with laughter. Sherlock squeezes his long fingers around John’s wrists. The giggling finally subsides, and John notices Sherlock’s nose in his hair, his warm breath on his ear and neck. A hot tingling creeps across his skin, the wine making things strange, John thinks, pulling back and clearing his throat.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” Sherlock says, releasing his grip but still holding John’s hands between them.

“Prolly should get a doctor’s opinion,” John says, grinning at him.

Sherlock smiles, and John will do anything to keep him smiling. He’s missed it, he realizes.

“I’m sure the sober doctor tomorrow will have all sorts of opinions,” Sherlock says. “Let’s go clean and dress them at least, so he’s not too upset.”

John lets himself be ushered into the bathroom where the light is too bright. Sherlock runs cool water over the burns. They stay in each other’s space, bumping side by side at the sink, Sherlock’s nimble fingers deftly ensuring John’s wounds are clean. John perches on the toilet, palms up on his knees, while Sherlock kneels before him, drying, applying ointment, then tenderly wrapping John’s hands in what is likely an excessive amount of bandage.

“You are ridiculous,” Sherlock says when he is through, still kneeling at John’s feet.

“That’s my line,” John says.

The feeling from before, by the fireplace, starts to fade, and John notices once again the deep exhaustion around Sherlock’s eyes.

“I suppose we are stuck being ridiculous together,” Sherlock says, glancing away.

“Am I fool to want to finish the wine?” John asks.

“No,” Sherlock says. “Come on.”

They return to the couch, and without much ceremony, sink back down together. John’s hands are slightly immobilized, he realizes as he reflexively goes to play with Sherlock’s hair, an act suddenly cumbersome and noticeable. Instead, he ends up with one hand on Sherlock’s knee, or maybe just a bit higher than the knee. Only a little bit, he thinks as he begins to drift off, Sherlock resuming a soft nuzzle at John’s neck.

John may be getting old, but he is still not old enough to remember getting drunk on wine is a bad idea, except for the mornings after he has been drunk on wine. The day is gray with storm but bright with a thousand reflections off freshly fallen snow, pouring light into the tall windows of 221B, a thousand little knives at the back of John’s eyeballs. His mouth is dry, and his hands yelp in pain as he tries to rub his eyes, the scratch of the bandage against his face scraping up memories of the night before. He is alone on the couch, a blanket draped across him the only sign Sherlock was there. The air smells vaguely scorched.

A tall glass of water and a bottle of painkillers wait for him on the kitchen table. He takes four, fumbling slightly with the bottle. Sherlock’s done a good job with the bandages, but John still begins to take them off, wanting to survey the damage for himself. There are several solid blisters already raised and shiny, tender enough that it’s difficult to make a fist. John sighs at his own drunken ineptitude, but escapes the flicker of hungover loathing when he remembers Sherlock laughing, Sherlock kneeling at his feet, Sherlock falling asleep against him.

Before he can reflect any further, Sherlock comes up the stairs from outside, knocking snow from his boots in the doorway just as John had done the night before.

“You’re up,” John remarks, because it has been weeks, at least, since Sherlock last set foot outdoors.

His cheeks are flush and his curls are damp with melting snow.

“Shoveling out the walk for Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says, removing his scarf and coat. He’s still in his pajamas underneath, his feet bare as he pulls them out of his boots.

“Nice of you,” John says.

“Didn’t think you’d be up to wielding a shovel,” Sherlock replies. He pads over to the kitchen table, shaking the wet from his hair like a dog, and peers suggestively at John’s hands.

“Hardly a mortal wound?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ll survive,” John says.

“Good.” There’s something slightly sheepish in the way he’s standing, like perhaps he wants to stand closer but is unsure how it will be received. “Going to let it breathe?” he asks.

“Ah, no, I guess not,” John says, looking at the pile of bandages he’s undone. “Just wanted to have a look in the cold hard light of day.”

“Right.” Sherlock sways, fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “Do you want tea?”

“Could do,” John says. Sherlock also hasn’t made tea in weeks.

“Right,” Sherlock says again, and goes about filling the kettle.

“Might have you wrap them up again, if you don’t mind,” John says, tries to make it sound casual. “Bit tricky doing it myself.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but as soon as the tea is steeping, he leaves and comes back with dressing supplies. He pulls up a chair beside John, but doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Lot of snow out there?” John asks as he offers his hands to Sherlock.

“Mm. Still falling. Everything’s closed down.”

“Good time to be incapacitated,” John says. “Nowhere to go.”

Sherlock’s fingertips brush against John’s wrist, linger slightly at his pulse, before fixating on the gentle reapplication of ointment with a cotton swab. John finds himself soothed by the carefulness of Sherlock’s touch—almost reverent.

“Thank you,” John says.

“For what?” Sherlock asks.

John means to say thanks for fixing him up, for caring even when Sherlock needs more care than he has to give. Instead, he says, “For laughing at me.”

This cracks a smile across Sherlock’s face.

“Anytime,” Sherlock says, finally meeting John’s gaze with a smirk.

“Nice to have something to rely on in this life,” John says. They keep smiling, even as Sherlock returns his attention to wrapping fresh bandage around John’s palms. As the dressing nears completion, awkwardness settles back in between them, flows out into the empty day before them, trapped in the house together.

“Do you want—” John starts to ask, but cuts himself off. “Another day on the couch for you?” comes out instead, doesn’t mean it to be judgmental, though he can hear it once it’s in the air between them. “I mean, can I interest you in some kind of activity?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, recapping the ointment and rerolling the clean bandages.

“Depends entirely on the activity,” he says, rumbling slightly below his ordinary register.

John feels that hot tingling across his skin again, not just the wine then. The heat pools in his groin, and he suddenly feels wildly uncomfortable in a way that makes his breath hitch.

“Like a board game maybe,” John says, and it’s almost a whisper, why is he whispering?

“Thought you didn’t like playing board games with me.”

“I don’t like it when you cheat and then get upset when I catch you.”

Sherlock shrugs like it’s all the same, and stands, gathering the dressing supplies to return them to the bathroom.

“I’ll consider it,” he says before vanishing around the corner. It’s only then that John realizes it’s been a long time since they had a truly contentious game. Probably before Mary, before the fall, back when they’d been younger than they realized. John’s holding on to fights from when they’d been different people. That small wound hiding in Sherlock’s voice. The truth was, John did like playing board games with Sherlock, even when they dissolved into ludicrous drama. Ludicrous drama was part of Sherlock’s appeal.

John gets up to go tell him as much, and they nearly collide in the hallway, John’s bandaged hands coming up to brace against Sherlock’s chest.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says while they figure out how to stand a normal amount apart.

“No, I—” John feels all hot again, skin crawling with their proximity. “It’s fine. I mean, I came to tell you, it’s fine. I don’t mind if you cheat.”

Sherlock looks slightly baffled. His hair has begun to dry and frizz, but one curl is still resolutely stuck to his forehead. Without thinking, John reaches up and brushes it away. His fingertips linger in Sherlock’s hair, smoothing out the fray with the last drops of clinging melted snow. A pink flush creeps up Sherlock’s neck, and it’s so easy for John to drop his fingers there, trace along the warmth under his skin.

“John,” Sherlock says, slightly choked, startling him out of the moment. He retracts his bandaged hand, and they stand there in the hallway, blushing at each other.

“Ok-ay,” John says with a forced smile. “Might go change. Pick a game, if you want.”

He flees to his bedroom before Sherlock can reply. As soon as he’s behind his closed door, he allows himself to be fully aware of the fact that he’s hard as rock in his pants. This presents all kinds of complex emotions he’s in the regular practice of ignoring, except today his usual approach of having a quick wank and moving on with his life is not quite as tenable. He can hardly make a fist with either hand, never mind getting a solid grip for the rapid, fevered strokes typically needed to resolve the issue at hand. He paws at his erection with one bandaged hand, cringing at the idea of having a quick hump against a pillow. It’s either that or a cold shower, which presents its own challenges keeping the bandages out of the water. If he needs to bathe in the next few days, he’ll have to ask Sherlock for help. Sherlock massaging shampoo into his scalp. Sherlock carefully soaping away sweat and funk from John’s body. That reverent touch, caressing, across his skin, between his legs.

John comes like a freight train a few minutes later, rutting against the mattress like he’s just entered puberty. He breathes heavily with release, with shame, with regret that these thoughts live in his head and do such things to his body. Sherlock is a man. Sherlock is his best friend. Sherlock is all he has left.

He cleans himself up, packing away his feelings and fantasies as he changes into fresh clothes. When he returns to the living room, Sherlock has stacked several boxes of games on the table and resumed his limp-limbed flop on the couch. His eyes trace up and down John when he comes in, but if he reads something there, he says nothing.

The afternoon is easy, just the two of them. They play Cluedo, which is ridiculous, and then several rounds of chess, including one game where John steals an authentic win—he can tell by the brief flash of shock on Sherlock’s face that he hasn’t just thrown the game to appease John. Snow falls. Night falls. John opens a new bottle of wine, because he’s getting old but still not old enough to fear hair of the dog that bit him. Sherlock drinks too, not just the reluctant sips of last night, but one glass, two glass, three glasses with John, until they are a bit silly, sitting on the floor together in front of the fire, chess pieces strewn around them, forgotten.

John can’t quite follow the way the conversation dips and flows, nor is he sure how they end up on the topic of a dinner last summer, when Sherlock’s parents managed to get Sherlock, John, and Mycroft out to their country home for an evening as a family. John loves the juxtaposition of the Holmes children with their endearingly ordinary parents, and the bountiful opportunities to make both Sherlock and Mycroft squirm in their humanness.

“Your mother going on and on about setting Mycroft up on blind dates,” John recalls, laughing. “I kept thinking, you poor woman, you don’t realize this man has one love, and it is the cold death grip of high-level government bureaucracy.”

“She was about to start calling them over to line them up outside,” Sherlock says. “Mummy is very deep in denial when it comes to her lack of grandchildren.”

John wipes at his stray tears of laughter. It’s a good sign when Sherlock will make fun of Mycroft again. Means he’s beginning to emerge from his mental catatonia.

“Can’t quite picture Mycroft as a father,” John says. “Well, maybe I can. Slightly terrifying.”

“Unfortunately, we Holmes children face the primary challenge of having someone tolerate us long enough to consider reproduction. Being insufferable is high quality birth control.”

John laughs before realizing the self-deprecation embedded in the comment. He nearly makes a joke about being willing to have Sherlock’s children, but that seems far too weird even with the aid of liquid courage. Instead, he stares at Sherlock, the strange sentiment trapped in his mouth. Sherlock doesn’t notice.

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m not sure any kind of human connection, romantic or otherwise, has ever been Mycroft’s purview. He doesn’t even have one friend.” This comes out as a childlike boast, because Sherlock, at the very least, has one friend.

“And lots of people have been attracted to you,” John says, following the unspoken line of logic.

Sherlock winces, but not with any real pain, just a compulsive reaction the idea.

“Only before they know me,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“I know you.” It’s out of John’s mouth before he can stop it. Sherlock stills, avoids looking at him, and a long moment of silence stretches out between them.

“Yes, I suppose you do,” Sherlock says finally, like the admission of a secret. “But—” He stops, considering, and then says nothing else.

Everything John wants to say, he doesn’t actually want to say, lest he irreparably break the careful caring bond between them, the easy coexistence he cherishes so deeply, lest he admit to himself all sorts of things he’d rather keep hidden away. So, they sit, watching the fire, and pointedly not looking at one another.

“I’m going to open another bottle of wine,” John says, getting to his feet.

“A bad idea you will certainly regret,” Sherlock says.

“So, you’ll be joining me then?” John asks. This gets a laugh out of Sherlock, and the tension lessens.

John wrestles with the corkscrew in the kitchen, the alcohol dulling the pain but making his hands even less dexterous in their swollen, bound state. He doesn’t hear Sherlock approaching, and starts when Sherlock takes the bottle from him. Sherlock extracts the cork with grace and ease, then puts the bottle to his lips and takes several long swigs. Before John can comment, Sherlock sets the bottle down with a clink, takes a deep breath, and says,

“John, when you said—did you mean—” He huffs another, short breath in frustration. “I mean to ask, just that you said—”

The crawling heat on John’s skin is too intense, feels like it might burn off and blister like his palms. He takes the bottle from the table and mimics Sherlock, gulping unreasonable amounts of the rich, acidic wine, and sets it down again with a mirroring clink.

“Yes,” John says, wiping his mouth. “Yes, I think I did mean.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, but he still looks lost, uncertain of himself, uncertain of John.

“Yeah,” John breathes. “Oh.” The tension in the air is suddenly and inexplicably hilarious. John breaks out into a fit of giggles, leaning on the table for support, gasping for air. “Yeah, I really do mean,” he says again between bouts of laughter.

Sherlock looks somewhat stunned, unsure what to make of his best friend’s hysterical breakdown. His expression is a half-bemused mask, hiding a rush of thought behind his eyes. John can see it, the overthinking, spiraling out in Sherlock’s skull, and it’s too late, John cares too much about this man.

John grabs Sherlock’s t-shirt, pulls him down, and kisses him.

It’s feverish and short-lived, because Sherlock does not kiss back. When John pulls away, speared immediately with regret, Sherlock stares at him, wide eyed and blinking. There is a long, terrible moment of silence where Sherlock processes and John hates himself. Then, Sherlock touches his own mouth, and looks at John, like he is only now realizing what has happened.

John just stares back, beet red, drunk, and speechless.

“You—” Sherlock steps into John’s space. He’s staring down at John, pupils blown wide, lips damp and purpled by the wine. “A bad idea we will certainly regret,” he murmurs, but not like he means it, more like speaking his fear aloud.

“Joining me, then?” John says.

Sherlock kisses him. Hungry, with force, pushing them back against the table. John gasps, kisses back raw and open as they quickly become tangled in each other. He somehow ends up on the table, his legs wrapped around Sherlock’s hips, his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, while Sherlock grabs at his neck with one hand and his arse with the other, kissing with more passion than John has ever experienced in his life. The wine and their age should be slowing them down, but instead Sherlock breaks away with a groan as their mutual erections grind together, breathing hot into John’s mouth.

“I want to touch you,” John blurts. “Please let me touch you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, then kisses him deeply. “Yes.”

He’s able to wrench Sherlock’s t-shirt off and shove down his loose pajama pants before he remembers he’s about to have the same problem with his hands he had in the bedroom this morning. Sherlock’s skin is expansive, white like bone except where he’s splotched red with arousal across his neck and chest, except where his cock is long, flush, and swollen, and John wants to touch and touch and touch. He groans into Sherlock’s mouth with arousal and frustration as he runs his bare fingertips over Sherlock’s shaft. Sherlock replies with a high-pitched whine, a desperate little noise as he pushes off John’s t-shirt to brings their bare chests together. He wraps both long arms around John, gripping at John’s back. They kiss sloppily, overwhelmed in the heat of it, Sherlock giving tiny thrusts into John’s incredibly insufficient attempt at a hand job.

“Wait,” John manages, pulling out of the embrace. They are both breathing heavily; Sherlock’s eyes are dark and dazed. “My stupid fucking hands.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock says, leaning back in.

“No, wait. Come on.” John gets off the table and grabs at Sherlock’s arm, pulling him back into the living room. Sherlock stumbles behind him, his legs still trapped in his pajamas. John pushes Sherlock down in his chair, and then drops to his knees, pulling at Sherlock’s pants until they are finally down and off, and Sherlock is naked, legs spread before John.

Sherlock looks like he’s not convinced he’s experiencing actual reality. He stares at John, mouth hanging open, lips glossy and begging to be kissed again, which John does, sliding his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, sliding his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, far above the knee. Sherlock clings to John’s neck, kissing hard like he never wants to stop, but there’s something John wants to do, something John must do before he loses his nerve. He pulls back, gasping, exchanges one powerful, smoldering glance with Sherlock, then sinks to take the length of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.

Sherlock’s moan is luxurious. His hands fly to the top of John’s head, fingers tangling and pulling at John’s hair as his hips jerk uncontrollably and the head of his cock bumps against the back of John’s throat. John swallows and bobs and sucks—it’s been a hundred years and a thousand lifetimes since he gave his last blowjob, but even then John cared excessively about doing his best for others, and instincts die hard. And this is Sherlock, the person he cares for most in the entire world. Sherlock, doing his best not to hump John’s mouth, panting and groaning as his hard, hot flesh slides in and out of John’s mouth, across his capable tongue.

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock breathes.

John looks up at him through his eyelashes, and they both emit a sound of torturous arousal as their eyes meet. Sherlock’s face is distorted in pleasure, his hair sticking up at all angles like a mad man. John takes him deep, willing away his gag reflex, and Sherlock cannot bear to look anymore, squeezes his eyes shut as his head tips back and he cries out.

“John, John, oh god—”

John is ruined forever at the sight of him losing control. It’s too decadent, to precious, too overwhelmingly, mind-blowingly hot to ever be forgotten or discarded or ignored. Sherlock’s whole body tenses, arches up from the chair. He comes down John’s throat with a convulsion and a shout, thrusting and shaking until John has swallowed ever last drop. John continues to suck him until the sounds coming from his mouth are tinged with discomfort, then finally releases Sherlock’s softening cock. He immediately climbs onto Sherlock’s lap and kisses his slack mouth. They sit there and snog for what seems like forever, tasting each other, savoring the moment.

“John,” Sherlock finally interrupts, voice low and rough. “You aren’t naked.”

“Mm,” John grunts, kissing down Sherlock’s long, pale neck. He’s still wearing the jeans he put on this morning, erection near painful where it’s trapped, but he’s lost in the sensations of the moment, doesn’t know how to communicate that he doesn’t expect anything, because none of this is expected, probably shouldn’t be happening at all, but feels too good, too right to stop.

“Why aren’t you naked?” Sherlock asks, last syllable caught in a gasp as John bites near his collarbone.

“Do you want me to be naked?” John asks, kissing back up to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Yes,” Sherlock says without hesitation.

John laughs, kisses him deeply, then stands up and begins to remove his trousers. Sherlock watches with a fixed stare, everything about his face and body screaming debauchery. John finally stands bare before him, cock straining upward, hard and ready.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says.

“What else do you want?” John tries.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Dangerous question, John Watson.”

“You say danger and I’m there, Sherlock Holmes.”

They stare at each other in sexually-charged mutual admiration.

“Heads up,” John says, waving his hands, “I’ve already established the limits of taking things into my own hands, er, so to speak.”

Sherlock’s hand goes to his mouth, and he chews the end of his finger, thinking. Then he stands abruptly, kisses John hard, and whispers,

“Don’t move. Don’t think. I will be right back.”

Sherlock moves swiftly, vanishes back towards his bedroom. John takes the time to appreciate Sherlock’s glorious naked body, the elegance of his bare movements even in intoxication. Don’t think, good advice, for being left naked and alone in one’s living room after having sucked off one’s flatmate. Don’t think, and John doesn’t, fondles at his cock and relishes the scent of Sherlock and sex on his skin, in the air.

Sherlock reemerges as quickly as he vanished, still gloriously naked, but now with a tube of lubricant clutched in his hand. He comes close and presents it to John, nervously, like he’s had a hundred thoughts on his trip to the bedroom, all the ones John wasn’t having, that they really shouldn’t do this, that it can only end in regret. But John’s given up on those thoughts for now, can’t even remember they exist, now that Sherlock stands here, offering what he wants, what John wants, still afraid they won’t just take it.

“God, yes,” John says, kissing him. “If you’re sure,” he manages against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock just whines as they stumble back, this time landing on the couch. The lubricant is temporarily forgotten as they kiss and kiss, John straddling Sherlock’s hips and rutting against the crease of his thigh. Eventually he gets his hands around Sherlock’s arse, but his limited dexterity keeps him from seeking what he really wants, what Sherlock is asking for. He finally sits back with a frustrated groan.

“What?” Sherlock asks. His cock is beginning to fill out again, laying heavily on his stomach.

“My stupid fucking hands!” John says, flailing them.

Sherlock smiles, half-shy, half-deviant. “We have four hands between the two of us.”

He takes the lubricant and squeezes a generous amount onto his own fingers. Without ever breaking eye contact with John, he arches his hips and begins to finger himself. John is torn between the look on Sherlock’s face and watching his long fingers disappear inside himself—they both groan when Sherlock pushes three in at once. It is the sexiest thing John has ever seen. It’s not long before Sherlock reaches for John’s cock with a slick hand, stroking with reverence until John is coated and leaking from the tip.

Sherlock pulls John back down on top of him, wedged between his legs on the narrow couch. They kiss, long and slow. Sherlock grabs at John’s cock and positions him at his entrance.

“Fuck,” John hisses.

“Yes,” Sherlock says into his mouth. “Please.”

It’s too much. John presses in. There is a moment of resistance before Sherlock’s body gives, and then John slides his whole cock into the slick, tight hole. They are connected, pressed together, sharing breath, sharing body. The sensation is exquisite and powerful, almost too good to be believed.

“Okay?” John croaks out.

Sherlock cannot speak, but nods violently, pulls John into a ferocious kiss. He wraps his legs around John’s backside and pulls him in tighter, demanding movement. John starts slow, but it doesn’t last, because Sherlock is so responsive, groaning in ecstasy and crying for more with each faster and harder stroke. His cock is fully hard again between them, and when John attempts to rub at it with his bandaged hand, Sherlock bats him away.

“Just—harder, John,” he gasps out.

John loses what’s left of his control. He fucks into Sherlock recklessly, sucking his neck, biting his shoulders. Sherlock drags his fingernails down John’s back, yanks at his hair, licks into his mouth, and with every thrust lets free a new sound of pleasure, encouraging, demanding, then erupting with a second orgasm, semen shooting up across his stomach and chest.

John can’t stand it, he shoves in once, twice, and comes so hard he nearly blacks out.

He collapses onto Sherlock’s chest. They lay there, heaving with exertion, for an immeasurable amount of time. Sherlock’s arms wrap around John’s back, and they linger in the warmth of one another until the chill begins to set in across their sweat-damp skin. John tenderly pulls out, causing them both to wince. He stands, wobbling, and goes for a glass of water, two, and a kitchen rag. When he returns, Sherlock is sitting up. He hands him the glass, and the rag, which Sherlock haphazardly drags across his stomach. John sits beside him, their naked thighs pressed together. They drink their water.

“That was—” Sherlock says after a while, not looking at John, not finishing his sentence.

“Mm.” John says. He looks at Sherlock, and when Sherlock won’t look back, John grabs his chin, turns his face for a kiss.

“Come here,” John says. He leans back on the sofa, grabbing a blanket from the floor. Sherlock hesitates, but John tempts him with another kiss, and soon they are tangled together under the blanket, Sherlock nuzzled into John’s neck, where he likes to be, John’s arms around him. They fall asleep easily, tucked into each other, where they belong.

Again, John wakes alone in the blinding snowlight. Again, he ponders, with some amazement, man’s ability to swear off wine forever in the morning only to find it a good idea once again at night. He’s chilled, naked beneath the blanket carefully tucked around him. His mouth is parched like the Sahara, and his skin feels taut with dried sweat. He groans as he sits up, the aches and pains of kneeling and thrusting while pushing 50 making themselves known. God, they’d really done it, hadn’t they. John rubs his eyes. Not a flirt, or maybe even a sloppy drunken snog between very good mates comfortable in their mutual heterosexuality. They had sex. There’s no room for denial anymore.

John waits for the panic and doubt to arise, but mostly his head aches. There’s paracetamol and water waiting for him on the kitchen table again. He takes six and goes to stand by the window, holding the blanket around his hips with one hand and the water in the other. It’s still snowing, incredible considering the amount covering everything. Bright white fills the streets, turning cars into icy lumps, piling on street signs and telephone wires, coating the rooftops like the icing of gingerbread houses. No one is out and about, except for the scrape of a lone shovel out front—Sherlock, in his Belstaff coat but no scarf or hat, clearing the pathway between 221 and Speedy’s. Somewhere inside him, John is anxious—about their friendship, about his sexuality, about Sherlock’s desires—but in that moment, he is filled mostly with fondness.

He watches Sherlock until he is finished, and John can hear the door downstairs. For a moment, he considers fleeing to his bedroom, but it will only postpone the moment of confrontation. John will have to look Sherlock in the face without hiding the truth. There is nowhere left to hide.

John does go to sit on the sofa and attempts to look nonchalant, sipping the last of his water for lack of anything better to do. Sherlock comes in with a burst of cold, shaking the snow from his curls and kicking off his boots with a scatter of slush. He takes off his coat to reveal he’s got no shirt on underneath it, just his pajama bottoms slung loose around his hips. John swallows audibly. Two very visible sets of teeth marks and a brilliantly purple love bite stand out across Sherlock’s chest and neck. He hangs his coat and stands near the doorway, dripping and looking at John.

“Morning,” John says, a little helplessly.

“It is,” Sherlock says. His face is oddly blank for someone half-naked, wet, and covered in marks of passion. He stares at John, and John realizes he’s waiting to see what John will say.

“Quite a bit more snow came down last night,” is the unfortunate thing that comes out of John’s mouth.

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, though a moment clicks by where he’s clearly thinking.

“Yes,” he says. “Still coming down.” His gaze drops to the floor. “Do you want tea?”

“Please,” John says. He gets up to join Sherlock in the kitchen. The tension is palpable, especially given their mutual near-nudity, but John doesn’t know how to break it, is overwhelmed by his fear that he might break everything.

“How are your hands this morning?” Sherlock asks as he sets the kettle to boil.

“Fine,” John says. The bandages have held up remarkably well. He absently sniffs at one. It smells like sex. “Could use a change, probably.”

“Can do again, if you like,” Sherlock says. He leans back against the countertop, shaking a hand through his curls to wick away the wet. John is struck in the moment by how gorgeous he is, how he’s only gotten more so with age, the grey at his temples bringing an odd dignity to his eccentricity. He wants to touch, and now that he has touched, the desire screams inside him.

“I really need a shower,” John says. “Thought you might—” he pauses, swallows, looks at the floor, then back at Sherlock, “—assist.”

Sherlock’s still wearing his mask, but he can’t help the flush on his neck.

“If you like,” he says again.

John steps closer to him. Sherlock doesn’t move. John takes a deep breath and steps closer again, steps into Sherlock’s space. He smells like stale sex and cold wind, with the barest hint of cigarette. Sherlock remains frozen, eyes fixed on John’s.

“I—” John says, but can’t find the rest of the sentence. Instead, he gives in and kisses Sherlock. Gently, but with feeling, hoping to communicate what he cannot say. Sherlock makes a vulnerable sound, leans into the kiss, and for a long moment everything in the whole world is sweetly perfect, as nothing needs to be said at all.

The kettle boils and beeps behind them. John pulls back with a sigh. He can’t help but run his fingers across where his teeth have bruised Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock sucks air through his nose.

“Sorry,” John says, though he isn’t, not really.

“Not exactly a problem,” Sherlock says. He turns to prepare the tea. John stares at his bottom. Sherlock catches him, then tries to turn quickly away to hide his smile. John feels like a teenager again, like he wants to have Sherlock across every surface of this flat.

“Maybe after a shower,” John says, “we could build another fire.”

Sherlock passes him a steaming mug. “If you promise not to touch it.”

John snorts. “Might need to keep my touch focused elsewhere.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Enticing.”

“Yeah?”

“Potentially.”

They sit at the table and drink their tea in comfortable silence. John’s foot ends up stroking Sherlock’s ankle, sneaking up his pant leg to caress his calve. He’s addicted to the pink on Sherlock’s neck, like a mood ring for arousal. Gives him confidence more than anything else.

“Bath might be easier,” Sherlock says as he nears the bottom of his cup. “Keep your hands out of the water.”

“Not sure we’ll both fit in the tub,” John says.

“Didn’t realize that was an objective.”

“You’re not feeling a bit dirty this morning?”

A beat of silence before they both break into laughter.

“Slightly,” Sherlock admits. “They tell me I’m a genius; we’ll figure something out.”

“Oh, they do, do they?” John teases. Sherlock kicks at John’s wandering foot, which descends quickly into some highly undignified footsie. Then Sherlock is lunging across into John’s lap, and they’re kissing again, hotter than before, John opening his mouth to welcome Sherlock in, his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s wet curls. They kiss until they are both hard and rutting against one another, Sherlock through his pants and John through the blanket slung across his hips, and it’s truly ridiculous and juvenile and John does not want to stop.

So, he doesn’t. He shoves at the fabric between them until their cocks are out between them—Sherlock’s noticeably longer and John’s a bit thicker—and John gets a hand around both of them until Sherlock catches up, and then they are stroking each other off, foreheads pressed together, sharing a hot exchange of breath.

“Yes,” John cries as Sherlock picks up speed, “that’s perfect, Sherlock, oh god—”

Sherlock smashes their mouths together, bites down on John’s lip, and comes hard across John’s chest with a pained growl. The combination of sensation and stimulation sends John over the edge, pumping spurt after spurt onto Sherlock’s fist. John whines, his head lolling back and then forward to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock pants against his neck.

“Jesus,” John says. He can’t remember the last time he’s had sex this good. Maybe never. He’s still not sure about Sherlock’s sexual history, but he hardly comes off as a novice. A flash of last night, Sherlock fingering himself while staring John down. Not exactly virginal. John’s just come and yet the memory sends a fresh bolt of arousal through him. He never once imagined the consequences if Sherlock were to have a comparable amount of oppressed desire within him, if any of the buried longing was mutual. For the first time, he envisions a regular sexual relationship between them, and is nearly crushed by how much he wants it, how good it could be.

“You’re thinking,” Sherlock says from the crux of John’s neck where his breathing is still recovering.

“Mm,” John confirms.

“About?”

“You can’t tell?”

Sherlock nips at his shoulder. “We are covered in the evidence that I cannot read minds.” He drags a finger through the semen on John’s stomach.

“Thinking about sex,” John says.

Sherlock sits up to squint at him. “That doesn’t take a mind reader to see.”

John takes a deep breath and lets honesty fall out of him. “Thinking about how I just finished having sex with you, and already want to have sex with you again.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. He can’t manage the blank mask from before, the vulnerability in his eyes is too much.

“If you were amenable, of course,” John adds.

Sherlock blushes, tries to hide his smile again. Kisses John to hide it, then pulls away and gets off his lap.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, nonchalantly.

“Oi,” John says, and smacks Sherlock’s bare bottom as he starts to walk away. Sherlock yelps, giggles at the sight of John’s grin. John lunges up and catches him in another passionate kiss. The blanket drops, leaving them both naked, covered in each other’s come, snogging in the kitchen. John gets lost in it, the smell, touch, and taste of him, the tiny sounds he makes when John sucks on his lip, squeezes his arse, pulls at his hair. Time falls away.

“A bath,” Sherlock mumbles against his lips.

“Mm,” John says, brain a bit empty.

“Come on.” He takes John’s wrist and pulls him towards the bathroom.

They don’t speak as Sherlock draws the bath, then sits John on the toilet once again to remove his bandages. John observes Sherlock, takes him in, the long lines of his musculature, the fine lines of careful attention around his eyes as he examines John’s hands, gently probing the swollen skin. There is a tension in the silence, so much still unsaid bubbling away inside of John, but there’s an odd peace in it too. A trust. Something monumental is shifting between them, and yet very little is changing. He trusts Sherlock with his life. He’s not sure why it’s taken him quite so long to trust him with his heart.

Sherlock eyes the tub, now midway full with steaming water. It really is quite a small space for two grown men. To get in that tub together is a deliberately intimate act, somehow just as intimate if not more so than their activities of the last 24 hours.

“Do you fit in there by yourself?” John asks, half teasing.

Sherlock snorts, and cuts off the tap. He steps into the water and sinks down with a sigh, a bit awkward until he relaxes back, knees poking high above the water. He puts his hands up like a magician completing a trick and glances at John with a small smile, which John returns. Then he sits up a bit more, spreading his legs, and gestures at the space between them.

John joins him, bracing himself on his knuckles as he lowers into the water. Sherlock’s thighs press against his hips, the damp, wiry hair sliding across John’s skin until he is fully seated with Sherlock’s groin flush with his lower back. The water nearly overflows the tub. Sherlock brings his hands to John’s back, massaging lightly, then running his palms across John’s shoulders and down his arms, until he is draped across John’s back, his mouth pressed on the top vertebrae of John’s spine.

“Pass the soap,” he rumbles. John does.

Sherlock proceeds to tenderly and lovingly wash every inch of John’s skin that he can reach. It renders John speechless, the near-worship of it, lulls him into a zen state of submission. It feels like Sherlock is reading his life with his fingertips, memorizing his body. John is in such a state of bliss he barely registers when Sherlock pushes him forward to scrub across his lower back, slips his hands beneath the water and slowly between John’s cheeks. Sherlock’s middle finger is a knuckle deep in John’s arsehole before John fully becomes aware of the intrusion.

“Oh,” slips from John’s mouth. He doesn’t mean to tense, but he certainly squeezes where Sherlock will notice.

“Okay?” Sherlock asks.

“I—” John isn’t sure what to say. He’s thought about it, oh, how he has thought about it, and there’s little question of physical want, his cock nearly half-hard again, but there’s a big leap between thinking and doing, and—“It’s only that, I’ve never. Is all.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says. His finger retreats, though his hands remain gripping the curve of John’s buttocks. John twists to look at him, sloshing the water round. Sherlock glances at him, but his mind is whirring away.

“I didn’t mind,” John says.

Sherlock stares at him a moment longer. “Never, with anything?”

“I mean, about that much with an adventurous girlfriend or two,” John says. “But I suppose, no, never with anything else.” He clears his throat.

“But you had—” Sherlock stops, takes a deep breath. “You haven’t had any other first times in the last day, have you?”

John blushes. “Well, technically, yes. I mean, I’ve had anal sex before, but only with women. So, I guess you’re my first there. But, ah, not my first time sucking a dick.”

“I suspected that much,” Sherlock says.

“Deduced it?”

“You try too hard to let everyone know how not gay you are to have zero homosexual encounters in your past,” Sherlock says. “But also yes, it was evidently not a novice attempt.”

“Good,” John says, feeling a small stab of pride. “I mean, not the not-gay part. That’s a bit not good, all things considered.”

“You are an enigma from time to time.”

“Says the man whose romantic and sexual history might as well be a top-secret classified document."

Sherlock brings his hands around to John’s chest, ghosts his fingers across John’s nipples.

“What would you like to know?”

Everything, John thinks. I want to know everything about you.

“Are you gay?” is the first question that pops out. John winces at it, can hear his own insecurities voiced in the word. Sherlock pulls John back into his embrace, and John goes, until he is almost fully reclined against him, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder where he can tilt to look up at his face. Sherlock winds his arms around John, encompassing.

“I almost never feel attraction,” Sherlock says. “When I do, I find gender very low on the list of things that matter. Frankly, the whole system of categorization baffles me, and I try not to engage with it.”

“Very progressive of you,” John says. Sherlock shrugs.

“What else? Go on, ask.”

“You’ve had sex before,” John says, not really a question.

“Yes.”

“With men and women?”

“And a few lovely people somewhere in between. Occasionally all at the same time."

John is amazed by Sherlock’s nonchalance about this. Sherlock smirks at the astonishment on John’s face.

“There was a year or two between university and when my drug problems became untenable where my primary fixation was how to be discrete. Also known as the era in my life when I came up with increasingly elaborate schemes to hide things from Mycroft. Bit of a game between us, actually, but Mycroft was already working with MI5 and I was merely a lowly chemist."

“Which is why Mycroft would call you a virgin,” John says.

“I’ve always been torn by continuing to win, or finally rubbing his nose in how badly I beat him,” Sherlock says.

“So, what, you just ran around shagging people to hide it from your brother?”

Sherlock chuckles, the rumble of it vibrating up through John’s body.

“Nothing so mundane. I was using my chemistry degree to make club drugs, introduced me to the full spectrum of London’s underbelly. Ended up in all kinds of places, situations I’d never imagined. It’s easy to make friends when you show up at a party with drugs. Easy to get invited to more parties, invitation only parties. Eventually I ended up at parties where after a certain hour everyone took off their clothing, and sex was no longer a taboo but a norm.”

“And that’s where you’ve had sex before? At a sex party?”

“More like six months of sex parties, before I grew bored of it. And, you know, sex is fine, but cocaine is cocaine.”

John chews over this information—not at all what he was expecting of Sherlock’s past.

“Does it bother you?” Sherlock asks.

“No,” John says. “I’m not sure anything about your past could bother me. Though I don’t quite understand the appeal of something like that for a person who doesn’t feel attraction.”

“Rarely feels attraction,” Sherlock corrects. “It’s true, I wasn’t really attracted to those people, but something about the lack of judgement, the total acceptance and normality of sex for the sake of sex—it was an ideal place for exploration in the name of curiosity.” He pauses for a long moment. “Also, like I said, cocaine.”

“Is that it?” John asks. “Six months of orgies? Never a girlfriend or boyfriend?”

“I did have an affair with a married man, once,” Sherlock says. “It was brief. Also involving cocaine.”

John starts to laugh.

“What?” Sherlock says, frowning.

“It’s just, I’ve known you for nearly ten years, and I never would have guessed.”

“We have established you are an idiot, John.”

John elbows him, but not with any force.

“Also, you never asked.”

John sighs. “Suppose not.”

They sit in silence for a stretch, Sherlock running his fingertips up and down John’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” John says. “For not asking.”

“Why?” Sherlock replies.

“Because it might have led to talking about this.” He doesn’t clarify what this is, but tucks his nose under Sherlock’s jawline, nuzzling there.

“We’re still not talking about this,” Sherlock says, pure observation.

“I’m still trying to figure out exactly what to say,” John says. He wriggles until he’s able to turn and face Sherlock properly, lean in close to his mouth. “Slightly terrified the wrong thing will come out.”

“As someone who regularly says the wrong thing, I will probably forgive you.”

“Probably?” John asks.

“Well, if you say ‘Surprise!’ and Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson all jump out from behind something with cameras, laughing at what a hilarious prank this has all been, I may not recover from that wound. A possible but not probable wrong thing you could say that must be included in my analysis of all wrong things you might say.”

John laughs and kisses him, and then they are both laughing and kissing at the same time, John’s fear beginning to die.

It seems a shame to put on clothing, but the apartment has become quite cold, especially in contrast to the hot water and warmth of each other’s bodies. They part ways briefly with a kiss, and John runs upstairs for something comfortable and loose-fitting, easy to remove again. He comes back to the kitchen to find Sherlock in his dressing gown, reheating the leftover pasta from the night before.

“Hungry?” John asks, somewhat astonished.

“Starving,” Sherlock says, also somewhat astonished. John is overwhelmingly glad to see him willingly seek food. He wants to hug him tightly, wants to physically express his gratefulness for Sherlock’s existence, then realizes he can do just that. He plasters himself against Sherlock’s back, wrapping his arms tight around Sherlock’s waist and squeezing. When he finally releases him again, Sherlock gives him a questioning look.

“It’s just—” John starts, feeling oddly bashful. “It makes me happy when you eat.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, just half smiles and shakes his head, like John is being ridiculous again. John doesn’t mind. He goes to the living room and begins to do his best at building a fire.

“Do you want some?” Sherlock calls out, gesturing at the pasta.

“Sure,” John says.

He’s trying to strike a match for the kindling when Sherlock comes over to sit beside him on the carpet, two bowls in hand. They wordlessly exchange tasks, John taking the bowls and sitting on the floor nearby, and Sherlock deftly setting flame to the nest of sticks and newspaper beneath the log. He stands upright, dusting off his hands, glances at John a little questioningly, like he’s not sure why the floor is John’s seating option of choice.

“It’s cold,” John says. “Want to be close to the fire.”

Sherlock shrugs, then fetches one of the blankets off the sofa and drapes it beside John. John joins him in sitting on it, close by but not touching except where John’s foot covers Sherlock’s foot. John realizes he is starving too, and they eat ravenously. By the time the bowls are clean, the first log has caught fire and the room warmed significantly.

There’s a long silence. John looks at Sherlock; Sherlock looks at the fire. John finally squeezes his toes on Sherlock’s foot, and Sherlock starts, meets his eyes.

“It’s really—” John starts, then shakes his head and laughs. “I feel silly. I want to say I love you, but that’s not news, is it?”

Sherlock looks a little off-guard, but he cocks an eyebrow.

“I don’t like the word ‘love’. It means too many different things to too many different people.”

“Well, yes, but—what I mean is, you know I care deeply for you. Want to spend all my time around you. Think about you when you aren’t around. After all these years, you must know that. _You_ must know that.”

Sherlock’s mouth forms a tight line, but then he tilts his head.

“It seemed a viable explanation for my inability to get rid of you,” he says. “It’s just not the only possible explanation. I don’t have all the evidence. Your feelings are epistemologically inaccessible unless you are announcing them, and you actually do announce them most of the time. It can be quite helpful.”

“Well, I love you, then. I love you. I can’t imagine loving anyone else the way I love you.”

Sherlock turns pink, breaks John’s intense eye contact.

"Thank you,” he says quietly.

John feels a stab of anxiety in Sherlock’s moment of detachment, that after everything, he’s finally overstepped. He breathes, places his trust in Sherlock, and gives him the time to process.

“I am—” he starts, staring into the fire. “I am also quite fond of you. The things you said. Think about you when you aren’t around. I—” His hands twist in the hem of his dressing gown. “I want this, _this_ , but too much, a frightening amount. Some days I cannot fathom why you haven’t left. I prepare myself for the day it finally happens. I am afraid what will happen if I stop preparing, if I’m not prepared and it happens. I am afraid I would not recover.”

John twists to crawl over to him, put his bandaged hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“We have both been idiots and cowards, but god, Sherlock, believe me when I say, to leave would be to lose a part of myself, most of myself. My life is yours. I don’t care what happens. My life is yours.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide and watering, so John kisses him. They kiss long and hard, letting the feeling pour into each other, the overwhelming warmth of relief, of potential, of connection. They end up reclined, John on top of Sherlock, necking and rutting against each other to hardness once again. John shoves off his pajama bottoms, gets Sherlock’s robe open so they can be skin to skin again, so he can lick at Sherlock’s nipples and hump against his bare thigh, and bite at his long neck, and—

They do not hear Mrs. Hudson until it’s too late and she’s through the door of the apartment with a,

“Yoo-hoo!” She freezes as she takes in an eyeful of John’s bare ass, thrust in the air. “Oh dear, I’ll just let you boys to it then.” Without the barest hint of embarrassment, she smiles and turns to leave. At the door she adds, “It’s about time!”

“That will be all, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock rumbles from the floor. His flush embarrassment runs from his hairline to the middle of his chest.

When she’s gone, they burst into giggles.

“I suppose we don’t have to worry much about telling people,” John says. “Most of them think this is going on anyway.”

“I don’t know, we might have taken too long,” Sherlock says. “The betting pool they had at the Yard was donated to a children’s hospital a few years back."

“I’m sorry,” John says, suddenly. He kisses Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says again, dropping kisses across his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock grabs at his head to steady him, then kisses him soundly.

“Don’t be,” he says. “You waited until you couldn’t deny it. Until you were certain. I wouldn’t have taken you halfway.”

“I’m sorry it took so goddamn long, though,” John says.

Sherlock squirms, like he doesn’t quite want to say the words, but opens his mouth anyway.

“It was worth the wait.”

John has a moment of almost delirious happiness. He laughs into Sherlock’s mouth, and they spend another long stretch kissing, and kissing, and kissing.

“I want—” John says, panting. “I want you to, if you want to.”

“You’re going to have to say it first, John.” Sherlock says. He curls a hand around John’s erection, making him groan.

“Fine,” John says. “Fine. Sherlock Holmes, I want you to fuck me with your fantastic cock as a commemoration of this, the day I finally accept I am at least a little bit bisexual.”

Sherlock laughs. “You know you don’t have to, right? I quite enjoy it, with the right person, but not everyone does.”

“I—I’ve thought about it,” John admits. “I’ve fantasized about it, with you. Both ways, I—I’ve maybe been fantasizing for a long time now, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about, well, all sorts of things.”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow and squeezes John’s cock. “Well, if you’ve been thinking about all sorts of things, and I’ve been thinking about all sorts of things, we might need to have quite a bit more sex.”

John moans and kisses Sherlock. “God, yes,” is all he can manage.

The lubricant is still on the table beside the couch from their encounter the night before. Sherlock is slow with John, going one finger at a time and assuring John they can stop at any point, but after the initial weirdness of having someone else so intimately inside him fades, John’s whole body begins to tingle with the strange enjoyment of it. He’s still on top of Sherlock, and after a moment of Sherlock gently thrusting three fingers inside him, he finds himself rocking, riding Sherlock’s hand, seeking the stabbing bursts of pleasure when he moves just so.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is wrecked, like gravel, and the look on his face is stricken with lust.

“Please, I want you inside me,” slips out of John’s mouth, and he doesn’t even have the chance to feel embarrassed by it. Sherlock fumbles for more lube, slicks his cock up, and they shift so John can sink down at his own pace. At first, it feels like far too much, much larger than Sherlock’s fingers and hard as steel. John tenses at the intrusion, but then catches Sherlock’s face, as wide open and vulnerable as he’s ever seen him, chest heaving in anticipation. John bears down. The stretch aches, and aches, and it really is almost too much, but then Sherlock’s cock is completely inside him. Sherlock comes up off the floor, wraps his arms around John. John gasps as he shifts to curl his legs around Sherlock’s back and his own cock presses against Sherlock’s stomach, and then they are embracing each other, sitting completely entangled, and connected as intimately as two people can be. It’s completely overwhelming. They breathe against each other’s necks. Sherlock squeezes his arms around John tighter. John tightens his anal muscles. They both let out a decadent moan.

John doesn’t have much leverage to move, so he begins to rock, Sherlock’s cock sliding in and out incremental amounts. Sherlock groans torturously, but lets John set the pace, a slow build of their bodies coming together and apart. It’s not long before John wants more, squirms and whines when he can’t quite find a way to thrust. Sherlock takes the hint and releases his grip on John’s back, leaning back to brace himself on his arms so he can push his hips upwards. John follows his lead, Sherlock slipping free of him briefly as John gets his knees under him. He grabs at Sherlock’s cock to get him back inside and sinks down far more readily now. Sherlock gives a tentative but proper thrust and John cries out, steadies himself with his bandaged hands on Sherlock’s chest.

“Okay?” Sherlock gasps.

“Mmyes, yes, please god, do it again.”

Sherlock grabs his neck and kisses him hard. He thrusts deep, again, and again, and then John is lost in him, in them, in the strained sounds of ecstasy coming from Sherlock with every breath, in his face, a completely unmasked expression of raw passion and adoration, in the rub of his cock between them, and the deep penetration of Sherlock within him, body, heart, soul. His orgasm comes on slowly, then rips through him like the detonation of a bomb. Just before he loses consciousness, he feels Sherlock, shaking and shouting, join him in the expanse of mind-erasing conclusion.

He comes to collapsed on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s arms wound tightly around him, Sherlock’s cock still inside him, softening. He feels no urge to speak, lets his pleasure-soaked thoughts be buoyed by the rise and fall of Sherlock’s breath. Sherlock’s fingers trace small circles on John’s back. Eventually, he is stirred from his post-coital peace with a deep sigh from Sherlock. He lifts his head to look at him.

“What’re you thinking?” he asks, finding Sherlock’s face alarmingly blank.

“About death,” Sherlock says.

John barks a laugh. “After that, you’re thinking about death?”

Sherlock frowns, grips John tighter. “Thinking it’s inevitable that one of us will leave the other. I don’t want to lose you, but we all lose each other in the end. And that love is—” He falters, finding the words. “I love you because it’s worth it anyway. I love you enough to accept how badly it will hurt to lose you.”

It’s John’s turn to try not to cry. He kisses Sherlock.

"Promise me you’ll do everything you can to make sure it’s many years from now. For you, for me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, kissing him back.

“I love you,” John says. “And besides, it’s like you said.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock says, lifting his head slightly.

“We’ve got quite a bit more sex to have.”

Sherlock laughs.

“Indeed. Miles to go before we sleep.”

They linger there together in front of the fire as the final snow of the storm falls across London.


End file.
